A Short Stroll Before Dying a little death
by islington
Summary: SLASH - HPSS - snarry goodness - [Second Part Up] Harry wakes up with sticky PJs and decides to go for a nighttime stroll while his sheets dry, a certain someone finds him and wants to confiscate the cloak under which Harry is stark, bollocky naked…
1. A Short Stroll

TITLE  A Stroll Before Dying (a little death…) pt 1 of 2

AUTHOR  islington road  
PAIRING  SS/HP  
RATING  PG this part for some language

SUMMARY  Harry wakes up with sticky pajamas and decides to go for a nighttime stroll while his sheets dry, a certain someone finds him and wants to confiscate the cloak under which Harry is stark, bollocky naked…

---oOo---

A Stroll Before Dying (a little death…)

Harry woke up with a bang.

And what a bang it was. From dead to the world to full ahead-go on all six cylinders in the blink of an eye. Well, that was stretching it a bit. Harry only had the one 'cylinder', and by the time he woke up it had already… spent… itself.

'Oh bugger.' Harry peeled himself up from his sheets where he must've been rubbing himself, belly down, for quite the enjoyable minute or two if the warm, sticky smear was anything to go by. He rolled himself over, trying to avoid the soggy splotch on the sheet. His right hand grappled for his wand so he could flick a _lumos_ and inspect the damage.

'Oh bugger'. He had to grapple for his glasses with his left hand. And _then_ he could inspect the damage.

'Urgh.' There was a definite wet patch on his sheets, more substantial than a smear but less than a puddle. Regardless of size, Harry had no real wish to roll over in it any time soon. 'Maybe after it's dried a bit or something,' he muttered. Bloody hormones. And his pajamas were sticking to him something awful. He'd sweated through the thin cotton at the armpits and around his neck, where it had run all the way down  his collarbones and chest. Oddly enough, he'd also sweat majorly from the back of his knees – was that even normal? Anyway, Harry thought, it feels really quite icky.

'There's only one for thing it,' Harry grumbled, and he scrambled upright, careful not to disturb his tightly drawn curtains. This whole puberty thing was embarrassing enough without having an audience. Next, he shimmied out of his sticky pajama bottoms and his undies (which were the stickiest they'd  been - ever), and then shucked his pajama top. He gave it a quick whiff, scrunched his nose up and tossed it to the end of his bed, he wouldn't be wearing that anytime soon. Harry glanced down at himself. At least I can leave my socks on, he thought wryly. There was something at least that didn't have to be stripped off after midnight every single night. Well, that wasn't quite accurate - it wasn't once a night. Sometimes it was twice.

Harry grimaced.

The whole thing was so frustrating! If it was some nice, normal predictable thing that would at least be tolerable. But nooooooo! Sometimes he'd know he was having pleasant dreams and he could get to that nice plateau where he could enjoy the feelings and still have enough presence of mind to wake himself up fully before he messed the sheets. Sometimes he'd only surface from his sleep in time to enjoy a nice mellow climax and then he'd be consumed by a warm wave of well-being and satiation, in which case he'd go back to sleep with a big stupid grin on his face. Which, coincidentally, he'd wake up with the next morning and be teased about unmercifully for the rest of the day.

Or it happened like it'd happened this night. He'd wake up in an instant with his heart pounding practically out of his ribcage, his cheat heaving and every last inch of his skin flushed and sweaty. The absolute worst thing was that in these cases he could not simply go back to sleep. Not even if he changed his sheets and PJs. He was so wide awake. And somehow coming so hard courtesy of the mattress seemed a bit lame. Let's face it, to enjoy a wank-session it was kind of nice to do it deliberately, with a bit of skill and finesse. Not just humping the goddamned mattress! A bit of a waste, really.

Oh well, it seemed like a stroll through the deserted hallways was in order. It was better than lying on whatever dry bit he could find and wondering what he'd been dreaming about that was so good he'd tried fucking his bed. And it was infinitely better than listening to Neville's whimpers when his silencing charm slipped. It was just _strange_ what brought that boy off. I mean, devil's snare and lime marmalade? Come on. Besides, a nighttime stroll helped with the, er, musty-musky smell that tended to linger after the more athletic sessions.

And, yes, the invisibility cloak had a new home under Harry's bed where it was considerably more handy for these nighttime meanderings than buried at the bottom of his trunk.

Maybe it was the hedonist in him, but Harry had taken to going starkers under the cloak. It did feel nice against his skin, and it allowed the cool nighttime air to dry the sweat, but mainly the cloak felt nice against his skin – settling on his shoulders and hanging down from his chest so that it brushed against his legs with every step he took before swishing back to tickle the inside of his thighs, swirl around his knees and pull just that tiny, little bit against his backside. It was light and liquid-y, but it still stopped the worst of the draughts, it also didn't seem all that absorbent and Harry had long ago stopped worrying about staining it. He had considered what he'd do if he _did_ stain it. But asking Dumbledore how you go about getting dried come out of invisibility cloaks just never seemed to make it on to his top ten things to get done list. Strange that. Hell, Dumbledore'd probably go tell him to ask Snape for a mess-removing potion. And wouldn't _that_ be a riot.

Besides, going to all the bother to dig out fresh, un-musky clothes to put on to put his cloak over the top of seemed somehow pointless. When he put the cloak on he was invisible after all.

Harry shivered.

Tentatively, The-Boy-Who-Really-Didn't-Want-To-Wake-His-Dormmates-Despite-Being-Invisible crept down the stairs to the common room and carefully opened the portrait-hole. Harry's breath caught in his throat when the latch made a 'snick' sound, but it only sounded so loud because everything else was so quiet. He had to let his breath out slowly after he'd told himself off being so easily spooked. Coward.

Once I get out into the corridors I'll be more relaxed, Harry thought, there's no one to accidentally wake up – just snarky gits to avoid. But that wasn't hard once you got the hang of it, and pesky Peeves was more often a help than a hindrance, causing a ruckus that invariably allowed Harry to slip away from curious red eyes before they became any curiouser. That isn't to say Peeves was _always_ Mr. Oh-So-Helpful, but he had provided several well-timed distractions in the past and Harry hoped that was a trend that was likely to continue.

Confidence restored, Harry set off on a twisty-turny trek through some of Hogwart's more recalcitrant hallways.

A left here, a right there, a bit of back-tracking because of  what appeared to be a cul-de-sac, up stairs, down stairs, and he was thoroughly lost. A couple of sidesteps took Harry to an arched-window-lined corridor than seemed to stretch off long into the distance. It looked quite pretty really. A bright moon was glowing through the row of mullioned windows casting all sorts of pools of shadows on the floor and walls. The entire length of the corridor looked like it had been randomly splashed with black and phosphorous-white paints by a four year-old who'd run out of Ritalin. But it was pretty.

Harry padded silently along, his mind half on the view in front of him and half on the route he'd taken behind him in the vague hope he could retrace it before dawn.

Alas, he had no attention to spare for what was alongside him. Which is why he didn't see the black robe that blended with the black shadows, or the pale face that shone with the moonlight.

It has to be said, it was not one of Harry's better moments. Upon reflection, he'd probably be the first one to admit it, too.  That is, he would have been had Snape not beat him to it.

By remaining completely still and overwhelmingly focused Severus Snape could outwit and outwait just about anyone and anything. He had been known to outstare statues when he had a mind to and the time to spare.

The Potions master had been lying in wait for his invisible prey. He knew that he stood a good chance of going unnoticed by being in an unexpected place, especially if he was able to blend in and remain motionless. And by suppressing his magical signature – not that any of the brainless idiots running about the place, staff or students, could appreciate such a skill (with the perennial exception of He-Who-Must-Obeyed, a.k.a. his Dumbledoriness) – so as not to alert possible miscreants with that creepy, 'I'm being stalked – there's someone in the shadows' feeling.

After all the years, better that they should remain uncounted, he had spent looking out for a certain student's hide, Snape was (one could say peculiarly) attuned to the magical signature of one Harry James Potter, resident rule breaker and trouble maker. That is, he could practically smell the boy. Which was the only way he was ever going to be able to punish him for his foolish wanderings since the damn meddling, conniving old headmaster had given the equally damnable boy his ridiculous father's ridiculous invisibility cloak. Much to Snape's, and Snape's ulcer's, frequent disquiet.

Snape had been tracking the reclusive Potter for several nights each week for the past two months since term had resumed. He maintained it was for the boy's own good – for Potter to be resoundingly punished for once and, best case scenario, confined to his house's common room except for classes (and the inevitable detentions with Filch) and meals. Thus, it had nothing to do with needing a hobby more challenging than insipid crosswords and chess-challenge puzzles to combat his insomnia.

Originally, Snape had tried following the brat from the Fat Lady's portrait. Surely, he had thought, waiting for the painting to open and have a complete absence of person or persons come out would be a dead giveaway.

And so, despite the difficulty he'd had in concealing himself outside of Gryffindor's tower, Snape had lain in wait one very late night. After a not-inconsiderable wait and one or two muscle cramps later, he had finally been rewarded with the tingling of his 'Potter-sense' and the opening of the portrait hole. However, in the hours that followed, Snape had been unable to get even the tiniest tweak to indicate Potter's whereabouts or movements. It had been disturbingly near sunrise when Snape's  hind-brain had helpfully pointed out that since the 'Potter-sense' had tingled _before_ the portrait had opened, what he had probably witnessed was actually Potter _returning_ from a nighttime escapade rather than embarking upon one. Which meant he had spent the entire night doing his best impersonation of the wizarding world's own Great White Hunter while the brat had been safely ensconced in his bed. Covers drawn up tightly under his chin while dreaming about innocent lambs. Or something.

Which had in no way endeared said innocent-dreaming brat to the Potions master in any way, shape or form. Not that that had been a possibility, but it had firmly put it on the list of things unlikely to happen in any universe, at any time, ever.

When Snape had tried to stake out Gryffindor's entrance once more he had been somewhat rudely interrupted by the head of that house herself. In all her outraged… outrage.

Which had left him with the method he currently employed. That of staking-out various corridors with his 'Potter-sense' wide open and waiting. However, it was fiendishly difficult trying to stalk someone whom you could not see but who had every chance of seeing you. It was a challenge Snape relished.

And now it was about to pay off.

The anticipation was _so_ much more fulfilling than any crossword the _Daily Prophet_ could conjure.

Just a few more steps and the Potter boy would be safely past him, and Snape could simply reach out unobserved and grab him by the scruff of his soon-to-be-throttled neck. He fought every urge to smirk his satisfaction for fear or alerting his… prey.

Vengeance was sweet.

The tingle that alerted Snape to Potter peaked and then faded, it coincided with the faintest of swishes of air below his nose and a dusty aroma that went right up it. Someone had been a little lax with his cleaning charms of late. Hnnn.

All Snape had to do was reach out, grab and drag.

And that's exactly what he did.

Snape assumed what he had grabbed was a shoulder, so his hand clamped tightly and he hissed his triumph at the successful capture. '_Potter_.'

A muffled squeak confirmed what Snape's instincts had assured.

Harry had gone rigid when he felt a heavy hand descend upon his shoulder. His immediate thought had been _Oh shit it's Filch_. And when the hand had tightened cruelly Harry had sworn his heart had leapt all the way up to hang off that dangly thing at the back of his throat, like some deranged, internal bungy jumper.

Then there had been The Voice. It said his name.

'_Potter_'.

And all the remaining air was squeezed out of his mouth in a pathetic sounding 'meep' as his lungs seized in sheer, skin-peeling terror.

It was the voice that said things like _Our new celebrity, Detention Potter, See me after class, I see the Potter genes are living up to their promised potential, Next time you fall off that broom of yours do try to land on your head – it might improve things, as I fail to see how it could possibly make things worse_ and _Detention Potter_. Oh wait, he'd already had that one. 

Fuckohfuckohfuck. It's Snape, Harry thought, but then he couldn't think anymore because the vice on his shoulder had become a vicious wrench which followed through with a gale-force drag factor and it was all the boy could do to keep his feet as he was towed like a recalcitrant ship by something evil and possessed.

Walking backwards was not a skill Harry had often found the leisure time to practice. Especially not walking backwards while wearing a cloak that went all the way down to the ground and trailed about and got nicely tangled around his feet.

Possibly, Harry thought, I should do something about that, as he stumbled and bounced into yet another cold, stone wall. Bloody hell.

Like a snooty debutante who was loath to sully the hem of her gown, Harry did his best to grab some of the folds of his cloak and raise the hem to ankle height. It did make walking backwards at high speed just a little easier. Until they stopped.

A quick glance confirmed what the solid slam of the door had suggested in Harry's mind and the cold dread sat like old, undigested porridge in his stomach. They were in Snape's office. No one else had that many dead things in jars or a door that slammed shut like footfall of a god in seriously heavy sandals.

Harry became petrified, like a piece of ancient wood. Trapped forever and staring down eternity's compassionless path. He could clearly that his own, personal eternity involved cauldrons and an awful lot of scrubbing.

Bugger, shit and hell.

What happened next didn't reassure Harry in the slightest. Snape removed his hand from Harry's rigid shoulder. All the better to throttle me with, was Harry's grim realisation.

I am oh so fucked.

'Well, well, well. I appear to have caught a student out of dorms and after curfew. Tch tch tch. This is a very serious breach of the school's rules.' And a personal best, Snape crowed gleefully inside his own head. I've finally snatched the crawling little brat. Not even Dumbledore can condone his little golden boy being caught breaking the rules. The daft, old coot firmly believes if he doesn't know about it officially then it's perfectly all right. Which is exactly the same tactic they employ at that pitiful excuse of a ministry. They are mentally handicapped ostriches with a sand complex, the lot of them.

Snape gave the patch of invisible student in front of him a cursory glance. The brat's cloak was of exceptional quality – there wasn't even the minutest wrinkle in front of him to suggest a concealed person. Snape wondered yet again as to what other adventures the foolhardy idiot had used his damned father's damned cloak for. Insufferable, the pair of them.

The professor's glance swept up and down in perfunctory manner and landed at Harry's feet, where his gaze paused. Harry was just able to loosen his neck's muscles and ligaments enough from their petrification to tilt his head down to see what had arrested Snape's attention.

Oh.

It was his sock-covered feet sticking out from the bottom of the hiked up invisibility cloak that had caught Snape's eye. In his unadulterated terror, Harry had not released his handfuls of the slippery fabric and his white socks sagged dustily and dispiritedly around an ankle and one calf.

Snape raised his head again, determined to pinpoint where the brat's head would be were it actually visible. He glared ferociously at the seemingly empty air.

Harry could feel every laser-like quality of that glare in every single one of his body's molecules. And they all decided to take that moment to shiver simultaneously. It felt like a tight, concentrated shudder. All over.

'Now,' Snape hissed, 'take that wretched thing off so I can see who you are, Potter.'

Well, there was no harm in maintaining protocol. Besides, it would sound better when he related the series of events to the headmaster, _And__ when I instructed the student to reveal him or herself I was as surprised as you were, headmaster, to discover it was Potter_. Yes, that should give the senile bat something to think over. Then again, all history was against him so it probably wouldn't.

History had also prepared Snape to never expect blind obedience from any one bearing the name of Potter, or even any member of the house of Gryffindor. However, he was used to eventual, grudging obedience given in bad grace and accompanied by a fairly repetitive litany of epithets: greasy, sodding, rank-bastard and the like.

So, it did not come as a total surprise that instead of obeying his command directly and without fuss, this Potter in this time took his sweet time and slowly lifted the cloak's cowl to let it slide down his still invisible back.

'So it _is_ you, Potter. The Boy-Who-Lived-To-Flaunt-Every-Single-Rule-In-Creation-For-No-Other-Purpose-Than-Because-He-Could. I doubt there is any reason for you to be so far from your bed, your dormitory or the route from either of those towards the headmaster's office. However, in the interest of sportsmanship I willing to give you thirty seconds to convince me otherwise.' Snape counted out the seconds with a tap of an impatient foot on the stone floor of his office. 

Harry swallowed. Every one of the thirty seconds trickled slowly over Harry's scalp and down his spine and raised an army of goosebumps. The words 'I was merely wandering the halls because I was hot, sweaty and horny and my PJs and sheets needed some to dry out actually' twisted themselves into every possible permutation and still came out sounding exactly the same.

And, as much as Harry was disgusted and horrified by turns to admit it, Snape, for once, was right. He was flaunting the rules.

Harry knew that wet dreams were normal. That every single boy in his dorm and throughout the school had them. And Hermione assured him there was a similar (though less sticky) affliction suffered by girls (although she hadn't exactly used the word 'suffered', more like 'enjoyed').

Harry had, throughout the years, had to sneak around at night in order to thwart Voldie's minions, henchmen, henchwomen, impersonators and all around bad guys. His dad's cloak had proved invaluable time and time again. But now…

Now I'm simply using it to wander about the place to waste a bit of time till my sheets dry. It's not even like I can't sleep because I'm tormented by nightmares of past or approaching horrors. I'm tormented by good dreams that I can't remember. Bloody hell. When did I become too good for the common room? I should have known it would only be a matter of time before I got caught.

None of which Harry was ever going to admit to anyone, especially not Snape, not now and certainly not ever. Although, if he could somehow be certain that the sheer unexpectedness of him actually agreeing with Snape would shock the bastard into a coronary it might, just maybe, be worth it. Possibly.

'Time's up, Potter. What, no protestations of injured innocence? No 'Oh but I was merely sleepwalking professor, thank you so much for safely waking me before I fell down a flight of stairs and broke my fool neck'?'

Harry shook his head faintly. He hated this. Snape could never just hand out a detention (or ten) and be done with it. Oh no, like a sadistic cat with a damp, squeaky mouse, he had to play with his food first.

Snape was mildly taken aback. 'I confess I am disappointed, Potter, I had expected much more of a fight from you.'

Bloody bastard's never happy, thought Harry. You rant and rail against him and he hates it, yet you meekly concede with the overbearing prick and he has the nerve to bloody well hate that too! There's no pleasing some people. Not that he'd ever set out to please Snape…

'Well, nevermind. Now, Potter, you know as well as I do that attempting to persuade Headmaster Dumbledore to expel you for your heinous disregard for school propriety and rules is a complete waste of time. You have at previous instances been deprived of every conceivable privilege you possess. None of which seems to have generated any perceptible change in your behaviour.'

Snape stepped closer to Harry, he wanted to ensure that the brat felt every millimetre of his message. And he was going to make sure that he, Snape, enjoyed every second that it took to properly punish the insolent little…

'And so, Potter,' here Snape leaned down a fraction closer to the petrified, upturned face.

'I am,' closer again.

'Going to,' a bit closer.

'Confiscate,' a tad closer once more.

'Your cloak.' The words had a solemn formality to them that was at odds with the glee in Snape's expression.

Harry could feel his world crumble down, stone by stone, around his ears. The cloak was his pride. His joy. His freedom. _His father's_.

Inside, Snape was jumping up and down. The expression on the brat's face had been worth every sleepless hour he'd spent waiting ever so patiently in draughty, dark corridors. They poor boy looks completely mortified. Hallelujah! I wonder how Dumbledore will take the news? He can't simply give the damn thing back to the boy, after all. Not when he's obviously using it for meaningless, unimportant jaunts around the school after curfew.

Harry knew he must have the dumbest expression on his face. He could feel that his eyes were wide and stare-y, and that his cheeks and lips were pulled and tight. And that a red glow of utter, helpless anger was making its way from his rapidly beating heart up his neck to his face.

And just when Harry thought things could not possibly get any worse, The Voice proved him wrong. It uttered the fateful, final words that spelled Harry Potter's doom and extinction from this plane of existence.

Those words were…

'Take it off.'

I am so _fucked_.


	2. A Little Death

---oOo---

TITLE A Short Stroll Before Dying (a little death) pt 2/2

AUTHOR islington road

EMAIL 

PAIRING SS/HP

RATING R

SUMMARY Wherein a certain professor discovers what The-Boy-Who-Lived really keeps under his robe ...

---oOo---

I am so _fucked_.

The thought reverberated across Harry's mind and back again. Halfway across it hit the words 'Take it off' going in the other direction. Their collision was unpleasant and made him feel sick. Looking at Snape didn't help matters any - the man was tensely on the edge at the best of times, but in the face of flagrant disobedience he looked positively tortured.

It was unsurprising then that Harry was utterly unable to make any noise at all. After all, that would have required him to actually be able to breath, an activity that, despite decades of scientific understanding, proved at this point and time to be unnecessary. It took vital concentration away from being scared rigid. Harry could not move. He couldn't even blink.

Snape's stare had shifted up a few gears from 'glare' to 'penetrative glare' and was now red-lining it all the way to a full-throttled 'scowl'.

All Harry could do was stare at him dumbly.

'_Potter_. I said. Take. It. Off.'

Mute disobedience was all that Potter presented him with.

'Have you gone deaf, boy?' Sarcasm never boded well for Snape's victims. It struck home somewhere in Harry's brain, in an area that dealt with survival, and a message was urgently telegraphed along a nerve.

Harry's head flinched.

It was sort of a shake of his head.

The Potions master raised one eyebrow. It was directly connected to Harry's adam's apple, causing the boy to swallow.

'_Potter_...', this time Harry's name was growled menacingly. Sweat beads sprang out and dotted Harry's forehead, when they got too crowded for space their friends and family appeared above his upper lip. Harry suddenly realised he was in that hyperaware state that frequently precedes death by misadventure. He could smell the beads of sweat underneath his nose.

That one realisation was like a red flag before a bull that's already had a pretty pissed-off day, it opened the floodgates, and all his other nerves began sending minutely detailed reports to their respective receptors in his brain.

Bloody hell.

Here he was. Stark, bollocky naked, except for a pair of grubby socks. Petrified into immobility. And all his sodding body could do was say 'Hey, you're about to die in a painful and humiliating way but not before you serve three lifetimes' worth of detentions. And by the way, there's a cold draught sneaking around under your cloak, your arms, legs and belly are singing with goosebumps, your nipples are as hard and peaking as Giza's pyramids. You're undergoing textbook symptoms of the fight-or-flight response so you're exuding adrenaline which is making you sweat and go all musky, and you're heart is pounding like an irate baker kneading stubborn sourdough. In case this isn't enough infomation for you, you didn't really wipe up earlier and all that come's dried up a bit and is pulling at the skin of your tummy and prick'.

__

Come. Prick.

The words circled the previous wreckage in his head like carrion-eaters before diving in to join 'I'm so fucked' and 'take it off'.

I'm standing here, Harry thought hysterically, thinking of my prick and my come. In front of Snape. And I'm naked.

Harry blushed. From his bellybutton all the way up to his ears.

Snape was getting more frustrated by the second. Potter was not conforming to type by ranting and raving and carrying on. He was being still and silent. But now, a tide of red swooped up his neck and filled up his cheeks.

Snape noticed, as he noticed most everything. And like most everything, it was filed away in the To Be Considered Later cabinet of his mind. What mattered here and now was punishing Potter. And punishing Potter meant taking away that cursed cloak of his.

'Potter. Give me that cloak. Now,' said Snape in his Even-Gods-Obey-This-Tone-Of-Voice tone of voice.

Harry trembled.

The flood of blood had reawakened his body but he was still pinned by the towering professor and his ferocious scowl. However, he had the presence of mind to unlock his jaw and force out a croaky 'No'.

Going by the look on Snape's face it did not appear to effect an improvement.

'_What_?'

'No. Sir.' This talking thing was getting a bit easier, mulled Harry.

Ah, the cat's no longer holding the brat's tongue, this is the way it should be, thought Snape. However, the professor was unable to shake the nagging feeling that irrespective of the Potter boy's defiance, the very fact that he, Snape, was conversing with a bodiless head and pair of be-socked feet was a deliberate attempt by the boy to undermine his, Snape's, authority.

Now it was Snape who thought _Bloody hell_.

Determined to effect some sort of cower in the brat in front of him, Snape loomed as menacingly as he'd been able to perfect in front of his mirror during term breaks. It brought him even closer to Potter's face, close enough that he could see minute reflections in the beads of sweat slowly making their way down his temples to join their brethren further south.

'Potter, if you give me cause to strip that robe from your person I can assure you that I will rip into _tiny, little shreds_.'

Harry was certain that every single word that Snape had said had gone in one ear and out the other. Except one. _Strip_ seem to have lodged into his mind. And it bonded like long lost brothers with _Prick _and _Come_.

__

prickstripcomeprickstripcomeprickstripcomeprickstripcomeprickstripcomeprickstripcome

The words became background music to the sudden and startling image of Professor Snape's hands, carefully and deliberately and methodically and thoroughly rending the soft fabric of the invisibility cloak.

He became agonisingly hard. Instantly.

Harry took a deep breath, his first in what felt like forever. He got a lungful of his own sweaty, musky scent and his arousal doubled.

__

Oh fucking hell!

Snape could read the panic in his prey's eyes the way a composer could read the notes of Mahler's Fifth Symphony. And it was as sweet to his eyes as the adagietto was to his ears.

'Potter. I have been fair and reasonable beyond patience. If you do not obey me in this, I will make your life such an unpleasant, hellish thing you will beg _Voldemort _for mercy!'

Such dire threats may have had a cold shower-like effect on Harry's hormones if Snape hadn't placed his hands on his hips during his tirade. The movement had caught Harry's eye and the sight of those sensuous, pale hands outlining the professor's own body instantly made the Horny Harry wonder, in explicit detail, what those hands would feel like firmly grasping his own hips. His own _naked_ hips. And under what circumstances that situation might arise.

It really didn't help when his mind suggested 'It might arise when he discovers just what exactly you have on under your cloak'. _When _not_ If_.

I wonder what else might arise in that situation?

Bad Harry! _Bad Harry_!

The boy blushed even more. 'P-please...,' he stuttered.

Snape was unsure when his joy began revolving around... dominating the Potter boy. But he had to acknowledge that it was distressing when Potter strayed from their previously established script, and so... rewarding when he didn't. The stammered pleading, the flush of anger, the thrill of the hunt and the demand, the _push_, for more at every encounter, they were all... rewarding.

Snape's heart was pounding. Too late he realised his palms were damp. And he was... excited.

It was excruciating.

It was terrifying.

It was electrifying.

His breath quickened.

Snape realised he had leant in so close to the boy that he could see the darkened flecks in his eyes and how they encircled the pupils.

This is so patently ridiculous that... But Snape's thought trailed off. He'd made the mistake of taking a deep, steadying breath and he was overwhelmed by the smell of the boy. He took a step back.

It was sweat and it was musk, balanced on a hard to register undertone that brought back memories of his own days in an all-boy's dorm.

Oh _fuck_.

Exactly, Snape's mind agreed.

He could not be being turned on by The-Sodding-Whelp-Who-Had-Bloody-Well-Not-Died-Yet. He couldn't even see him for starters. Snape also liked to believe he was not so far gone that he fixated on adolescent boys.

Not boys, his subconscious pointed out consciously, adolescent _boy_.

That doesn't really help, Snape despaired.

Harry was just staring helplessly and hopelessly up at his professor.

It's inevitable, thought Harry, he's going to reach out with those hands of his

-_Ohmygod, those HANDS_ -

and snatch the cloak away, and before I can curl up into a protective ball somewhere on the floor, he'll look.

And he'll see _everything_.

__

Oh shit.

Somehow that thought had ceased to be fatally mortifying. Instead, it had become mortifyingly exciting.

Harry had never thought that the mere idea of flashing his hard-on to his Potions professor would ever, could ever, be a turn-on.

But, oh boy, was it ever.

Harry could feel sweat starting to break out on his chest, in prickly, rash-type waves.

He shuddered.

Oh bloody. Fucking. Hell.

I'm hard for Snape. I'm naked but he doesn't know it and he's standing so close he can probably _smell_ exactly how I'm feeling. And I want... I want...

Somehow, Harry couldn't convince himself that what he wanted was for Snape to sneer 'We'll deal with this tomorrow, Potter. For now, we'll just leave things as they are. You're dismissed'.

A gibbering part of Harry's sadly underused brain madly began trying to calculate the points this whole thing was going to cost him and Gryffindor. He could hear it now 'Nine thousand points from Gryffindor for your cheek, Potter, at daring to get hard at the mere thought of a professor's hands. There are special circles of Hell reserved for people like you. We can never hope to punish them enough on the mortal plane, Potter, your punishment will continue on into the next world. You make me sick'.

Little did Harry know that similar thoughts were passing rapidly through Snape's own mind. Only, they were aimed completely at himself and sprang from the same well of self-judging castigation that said 'Yes, you are completely sane - you who voluntarily _joined the Death Eaters!_ Of course your judgement is entirely trustworthy!'

Snape willed that irritating voice to pack its bags and take a trip to Timbuktu or some other delightfully remote place if it wasn't going to offer any helpful suggestions.

Heart still pounding and palms still sweaty and mind still reeling, Snape gathered his wretched dignity, as much as he was able, determined to maintain his position of authority despite his state of arousal.

After all, Snape told himself, the boy doesn't have to know that you're as hard as seasoned timber. Try to maintain your position.

__

No not that position you pervert!

The air did not thrum with tension.

A plucked string thrums. This tension coalesced like candied molasses and was sliding over Harry like maple syrup and melting ice-cream slides over fresh, hot pancakes.

I am so fucking doomed, Harry mentally wailed. I'm going to come right here. As soon as he opens his mouth and The Voice comes out again.

__

Oh shit. I shouldn't have thought of that word! 

Snape wanted to say 'Potter, you have exhausted my patience the way a vampire exhausts a victim of blood. Unless you want your house to be in _negative points_ for the rest of this year you will hand over that accursed cloak this instant!'.

But he didn't. He couldn't. His head was swimming and all he said was '_Potter_' in a tight, strained voice.

Harry's eyes closed involuntarily. I can't bear it any more, he thought desperately. The-Boy-Who-Lived is going to be remembered as The-Boy-Who-Died-With-A-Hard-On. I'm sure that'll make the Wizarding world very proud, they'll be able to say that I did not wilt in the face of death. That I stood up to the challenge till the very end. _Oh god_.

Snape raised a hand from where it bunched tightly on his hip and reached out to where he suspected a shoulder to be. The professor carefully reminded himself that it would all be over soon, the boy would be appropriately dealt with and dismissed and no one need ever know about what passed through his mind. Just a little bit more, he thought.

Snape's fingers brushed against cool cloth, he gathered a handful and began to pull.

He didn't really notice the bare throat that was exposed as the cloak began to slide off, but his hand released the soft fabric.

The bare shoulder than came next was unusual.

The bare upper arm was certainly not normal.

As was the creamy line of the collar bone.

The nipple was unexpected.

The skin that was displayed as the cloak was besieged by gravity did not seem to end in pyjamas or clothes of any kind.

Snape's mind had been stuttering to a halt for the best part of the last ten minutes. But the pale lines of faint ribs and musculature and toned arm made his mind slam to a sudden standstill. And then start back-pedalling.

One half of the boy's torso was completely exposed. As was most of one arm. The cloak had snagged on the lower forearm and hip, but the weight of the fabric inevitably dragged it onwards.

Suddenly, Snape could see a bare hip. Which meant there was not going to be any modesty-saving, loosely tied pyjama pants. Not unless they did up at the knees and ended before the ankles at any rate.

For all that Snape had despised many people over the course of his lifetime, himself included, he had never thought any one so deserving as he himself was going to be when this whole situation was blabbed to Dumbledore. His mind fast-forwarded to the interview with the board of governors under Veritaserum -

-So you ordered the boy to strip?

-Yes.

-For reasons of punishment?

-Yes.

-And he was so cowed by you that he obeyed?

-Yes.

-You did not think to appraise his head of house?

-No.

-So you were alone, the two of? Just you and the boy?

-Yes.

-Tell us, professor, were you, uh, excited in any way..?

There was no way he would appear as anything other than a deranged pervert. No claiming eleventh hour spying this time - No really, I entreat the board, it was on orders from Voldemort, I was doing it to prove my loyalty and maintain my position of trust for our worthy cause!

A soft 'whump' diverted Snape's attention back to his student. His now completely-naked-except-for-socks student. The soft sound had been the invisibility cloak dropping on to the stone floor, where it pooled around the boy's socked feet.

Snape' quirked his mouth in amusement, apparently the boy's tide of anger rose all the way from his navel to stain his cheeks. It was a passing amusement but it lead his eyes down the neck and the sternum and the torso and the abdomen where it ricochet suddenly back to the boy's eyes.

Harry had scrunched his eyes closed. It didn't help, but then nothing could. He'd felt so exposed when the damn cloak had been sliding off, but when it had snagged on his hip and arm he'd felt as if the entire world was watching. I can't bear it, I can't bear it, became his mantra, and so he'd closed his eyes tightly in some vain hope to avoid making it worse.

Harry's tortured mind bent itself around and presented him with an image of what the Potions professor must be seeing, the inevitable slide of fabric, the revelation of skin, the panting breath, the steamy cheeks, the tensed body. An inch of skin followed by another. His mind matched the image to the sensations of the sliding cloak, sensations his mind enhanced and presented to him anew.

Fucking hell, I'm turning myself on!

It was not the best time to have such a realisation, it was echoed by the cloak's final defeat by gravity. And Harry saw himself standing naked in front of Snape. Naked and hot and sweaty and painfully erect.

Awaiting his nemesis' reaction made Harry quake anxiously and... expectantly. For what, his mind was silent on for once.

Snape's double take was worthy of Charlie Chaplin at his comic best. His gaze had followed the tide of red down the boy's body and seen something so unexpected and outrageous that that it had sent his gaze shooting back up to safety. But disbelief had hauled it down again, and down was where his gaze locked.

No matter how inappropriate, how invasive, how wrong it was to stare at his student's flushed cock, Snape was incapable of looking away.

It cannot be... was all his wretched mind could babble. The realisation of his own arousal had been a horrifying event, but to see its twin upright and staring at him... And the boy so obviously aware of it and the implied meaning...

The musky smell of sweat and arousal, the dusty socks, the flushed face, the boy's initial recalcitrance - all the pieces fit together. The picture itself did not make sense, but it was a whole image. The boy out of bed, out of dorms, wandering the halls, naked, aroused - then or did it come later? Was it anticipation of an illicit tryst among the shadows? Was it the memory of a dream? But why was the blood still filling it so, keeping it so hard, so eager?

Was the boy hard for him?

All this time he'd been standing here reprimanding himself for unbridled perversion had the boy been as insolent as to be turned on by him?

Did it matter?

Snape's eyes drifted upwards once more and his focus widened. Potter's erection was attention-grabbing, yes, but the picture as whole - the limp socks, flushed face, pale skin and oh so much of it and its pink tide rising up to his ears, the sweat on his face, in his hair - he looks positively debauched already.

Could I possibly make a difference?

Could my touch make a difference?

The hand that had been guilty of grabbing the boy and grabbing the cloak drifted upwards once more but this time hesitantly, unsure.

It reached out tentatively to a damp, red cheek, stilled there, still unsure, and then touched ever so softly.

Harry's eyes flew open. He had been expecting scorn, anger, derision, violence, humiliation - anything.

He hadn't been expecting touch.

When he did he get so close? Harry's mind whimpered.

His Potions master's hands were so warm. _Snape's_ hands were so warm. And they're touching my face, thought Harry, bewildered.

The boy whimpered. Snape wasn't sure if it was with need or disgust or even if the boy knew himself. But Snape knew what he needed. It might not be proper, it might not be honourable, it might not even be long-lived, but then and there he needed to touch the boy more.

He needed to caress his skin. Needed to feel his dampened hair. Needed to stroke those red lips…

__

With my tongue…

Snape raised his other hand up and cupped Harry's face. He was so close already that it seemed quite easy to bend down and press his lips against the boy's lips. Easy to swipe his tongue and lick his way inside. Easy to become familiar with the taste and to fall back into the rhythm of breathing through his nose.

It was easy to accept the fumbling of uncertain hands at his shoulders, and oh so easy to let one of his own hands slide lazily down the naked, silky back, to let it glide to a stop right on the uppermost swell of the boy's arse.

Harry was lost. He was lost because his professor was touching him. Lost because there was a tongue in his mouth. Lost because he couldn't seem to catch his breath, and then lost because his spine liquefied as a broad palm slipped down his back. Harry centred suddenly when sparks from that broad palm leapt straight through his middle and into his cock. His hips had jerked forward instinctively and suddenly his cock-head was no longer kissing cool air but rubbing tightly against the tight woollen weave of the professor's black cloak.

Sensation flared through his body once more, like a rescue beacon on a dark night, all fire and sparks and requesting assistance. Pleading. Imploring. Begging.

Harry realised it was his voice, husky and whispery. His lips had slipped form Snape's and he was mouthing desperately against his cheek, whimpering his pleas as the man's tongue danced wickedly around his ear.

Snape couldn't bear to ask if the boy was sure, if this was what he wanted. He was writhing and whimpering and rubbing his pre-come all over the front of Snape's own robe. And dammit! He wanted too.

Intense and fierce arousal leaked from every pore of Snape's body. He had found himself teetering on a precipice of morals but that one look at the boy's glorious, debauched form and Snape had thrown himself over the edge -consequences be damned.

Roughly, Snape urged one clothed thigh between the boy's naked ones, and tried to find purchase on the uneven stone wall with his foot for stability. Harry's hips cantered upwards, pressing him line-to-line against Snape's own. Harry wildly ran his hands along Snape's arms, his shoulders, and his back. Sometimes scrabbling for something to steady himself with and other times for the sheer pleasure of touching.

Snape wrapped one arm around the boy's back and tangled his other hand in the unruly, sweaty black hair. He needed to anchor that head, tilt it just so and then he could slot his mouth against Harry's just so and try to feed his hunger for the boy's taste mingled with his own.

Their taste.

Oh fuck.

They were rocking against each other now. Rubbing and sliding. Tilting and twisting. Snape thrust up strongly, seeking firmer contact through the deadening layers of fabric.

It was too much for Harry, riding his professor's thigh, having the rough cloth slide across his cleft and oh so teasingly close to his opening. He could feel the heat spiralling tighter behind his belly-button and he lost control of his mouth's co-ordination. It was too much to feel all of this and kiss at the same time, so he settled for burying his face into the crook of Snape's neck and breathing in the concentrated musk he found there mingling with some strands of fine, dark hair. And he was gone, exploding in waves and pulses. Stars behind his eyes, sparks throughout his body, and wet heat all across his front.

Snape was so close to his own climax that the pants of warm, moist air against his neck and the shuddering of the coming boy in his arms pushed him just that little bit further. He pulled Harry's hips into his once last time and the heat flooded out of him.

Unsteadily, Snape lowered his foot to the floor. The dead weight of the spent boy he still held in his arms dragged the odd pair down onto the cold stone amidst the folds of the invisibility cloak, breaths huffing and limbs tangled.

Harry was content to stay right where he was, and Snape kept his arms around the boy.

Eventually Harry's brain rebooted itself, and while the enormity of the situation remained reassuringly out of reach, the irony that he was in even worse shape now than when he'd in been in bed earlier circled his head like cartoon tweety-birds.

He was still sweaty, even the backs of his knees. He was still sticky. And he'd still humped himself to orgasm on a bizarre object for an incomprehensible reason. But his mattress was unlikely to get him expelled, however, his mattress also didn't have arms to cradle him… So, Harry snuggled in closer to the warm body around him, happy that at least one aspect of this was better than his regular nightly sessions.

Snape, for his part, could find no explanation for his own conduct and even less explanation as to why the student he'd just unforgivably molested by most people's standards, including his own, was burrowing in closer to him like he was nesting for the winter and never wanted to leave.

However, uncomfortable stone floors triumph over even the most exhausted and confused souls, and eventually the pair rose awkwardly to their feet, Harry clutching his father's cloak nervously.

Snape was comprehensively tongue-tied, and refused to listen to his inner-voice's amusing limericks as to why that might be the case. Instead, he calmly waved his wand over boy and cloak, easily removing tell-tale marks and smears.

I've done enough to the boy for one night, Snape thought, last thing he needs is a hickey to explain in the morning.

Harry, having run the full gamut of emotions, settled tentatively on 'shy'. It was, after all, his first 'morning after' experience and the sun wasn't even up yet. He appreciated the gesture of the cleaning charms Snape had cast but was unable to show that or say so. He settled on draping the invisibility cloak around his shoulders.

Snape was still uncertain as to which way was up, and he took the boy's action as his own cue and stepped forward, raising his hands to Harry shoulders.

A small hope was born inside Harry, thinking he might just be in for one more taste of Snape's exquisite mouth. But it sputtered out quietly when the sensuous hands went over his shoulders and drew the cloak's cowl up and over his head.

Snape turned to his office door, but before he opened it he found himself saying to the invisible boy behind him, 'Potter, now you know what happens when I catch you roaming the corridors at night. You should be more careful in the future.' Snape hoped that was ambiguous enough, he found it truly impossible to commit to tantalisingly inviting the boy back or banning him outright.

Snape opened his office door, then stood aside to let the boy leave.

Harry understood the message, or thought he did. He knew he _should_ be more careful in the future, but didn't actually know if he _would _be…

Somehow, he rather thought he would not.

---oO THE END Oo---

---oOo---

AUTHOR'S NOTE

I wrote this as a personal response to an image that leapt into my head one day - namely that of a flushed Harry in sagging socks, and nothing else, awaiting punishment at Snape's hands…

Fan art anyone?


End file.
